As stubborn as her father, Young Brianna growing up in Boston
by Cherylas18
Summary: Brianna and Claire can't understand why Frank insists on riding lessons for 6 year old Bree, who would much rather go to ballet class with her friends. From Bree's point of view


Momma would sometimes say under her breath, "so stubborn, just like her father." Funny, I never really thought that daddy was the stubborn one. Momma was far more hard headed than he was. Most arguments ended almost before they began with daddy saying something like, "Well, I'm sure you'll do whatever suits you regardless of my opinion". She would just stare at him with a face that shouted, "Yes, that's exactly what I will do." and that was the end of it.

The only time that daddy always seemed to get his way was when a decision was about me. At age six I desperately wanted to quit riding lessons so that I could take ballet instead, momma said to him "Frank, she's 6, she wants to go to dance class with her friends. The class is so much closer than the stables - much easier to get her there." She cajoled, knowing that getting up each Saturday to drive out to the stables in Needham was not daddy's favorite activity. "She could even carpool wi...".

"Briana is my daughter. She will take riding lessons." He didn't yell, but there was a hardness in his voice, so cold that it seemed to freeze her in place. Momma's face flushed with rage as it always did in moments like these. She held very still looking at him, then tuned her gaze to me, and exhaled, her face changing to - I don't know what to call it, sad isn't it. It was a look of total surrender.

I wasn't ready to give up so fast. "I will not go to riding lessons anymore, I am taking ballet." I stood behind the kitchen table and slammed my hands down hard onto the smooth Formica top, bracing to resist any attempts to change my mind. Daddy walked softly over to me and sat down in the kitchen chair next to where I stood. He never raised his voice, he gently pulled my small pink hand between his two long fingered ones and calmly said "Brianna, I want you to continue your riding lessons. You will continue."

"Daddy, I want to take ballet. Barb and Patty are starting ballet and I'm going to do it with them." I didn't whine, as some children would, I spoke to him as if we were equals and I knew I would convince him of my rightness. He looked at me and I placed a mask of calm resoluteness on my face, but my heart was pumping, ready for battle. I knew that I would not give in.

"No sweetie you'll take riding." He said softly but steadily. Then turned and picked up his paper and walked into the living room.

I raised my hands to bang on the table again, but momma shrugged and silently went up to their bedroom. Deprived of an audience for my fight, I sat down hard on the kitchen chair and screamed in full voice "I hate you both, you never let me do ANYTHING!" and stomped up to my room slamming the door four or five times.

There was no mention ballet or riding for the rest of the school week. On Saturday when daddy woke me up at 6:30 to go riding I said "No, I'm starting ballet today." Despite not having been registered I had convinced Barb to let be borrow her older sister Ellen's light pink leotard, tights and shoes, and the beautiful matching crocheted bun holder. I was going to dance class!

Daddy sighed deeply, clearly having hoped that the ballet issue had been forgotten. "You are going to riding class" daddy said calmly but firmly. "You have two choices young miss, you can get dressed willingly and walk out like a mature young lady, or you can be dragged there. But, you are going". He walked out of the room. "We leave in 10 minutes. You can eat breakfast in the car.

I was going to dance class! I struggled into the tights, hoping that they would be long enough. Barb's sister Ellen was 3 years older, but I was taller, I was the tallest girl in my first grade class. I was the tallest girl in the entire lower school, in fact, I was taller than most of the third graders. Once in the leotard I started in on my long red hair. Hair that never missed being commented on and even touched by complete strangers! I swung it up into a high ponytail without trying to brush it first. Not as curly as momma's, it was still pretty wild especially after just climbing out of bed. Ok, a bun, hmmm. Not knowing how to do that, I let the bun holder drop to the flowered area rug under my feet resolutely thinking, they can't make me go riding.

I heard daddy's footsteps coming down the hall and readied myself for the confrontation. He knocked once and opened the door without waiting for an answer. He looked at me and I pushed my chin into the air, but held my face still, showing a calm that I did not feel. He raised one eyebrow and the corner of his mouth twitched. "That's an interesting choice of riding attire Bree. It's time to go."

"I'm going to ballet!" I crossed my arms resolutely ready for a battle of wills and words. Daddy took two deliberate steps closing the gap between us, scooped me up with one long arm and carried me out the door. "No!" I screamed. "Mamma! Mamma!" I yelled behind me as he easily carried me down the old, steep wooden stairs that creaked with our doubled weight, of our brownstone home.

"Mamma's at the hospital". He stopped at the hall closet switched my weight to his other side and grabbed my riding bag with the other. Stepped out the door, ducking to keep my head from banging, and down the cement steps of our stoop. Through the alley between the tall brick buildings, to the parking enclosed by the backs of an entire block of look alike brick buildings.

"Daddy, I'm not going! I can't go, no!" I continued a steady stream of protest while pushing and kicking against him. He never spoke or changed his grip on me. He held me tight without hurting me despite my protests that he was breaking my back. He carried me to the driver's side of the big brown car. Opened the door to the front seat with one hand, and in a single motion slung me in and pushed me across the long bench seat. He tossed my big bag that held my riding boots, jacket and helmet, climbed into the car, turned it on and backed out of the space. As he pulled forward out of the lot, not looking at me, he wiped his hand down his long, handsome face and inhaled then exhaled deeply. Then, as if remembering something, pulled a wax paper wrapped piece of bread and cheese out of his pocket and tossed it into my lap without a word.

I wiped tears off my face and said as reasonably as I could "I can't go riding in ballet clothes."

He responded flatly, "Oh, I believe that you will soon see that you can." We drove the 20 minutes in silence, with me slowly munching my breakfast. We pulled onto the stone drive toward the barn. It was a cool October day, the ground was covered in brown and yellow leaves, and the tires crunched as we rolled over them. I could smell burning, not a wood fire - a pile of leaves being burned somewhere nearby. Daddy brought the car to a stop by the entrance to the barn. I could see that the other kids were already brushing their horses. The horse that I always rode, Winston, was nickering for attention. "Out!" Daddy said solidly.

"No!" I tried to sound resolute, but I was fading. "I can't go dressed like this, I'll freeze!"

"Possibly, but unlikely, you'll certainly feel a bit chilled. As I said, it was an interesting choice in clothing."

"The other kids will laugh at me!"

"Most likely." He said simply. "Out". I went to cross my arms to protest and he turned to look at me taking another deep breath. "They will certainly laugh if I have to get out and drag you out of this car. Make your choice". I made a loud, long aggravated noise to show him how ridiculous he was being, pulled on my riding boots, which felt slippery and too large over the pink tights. I shoved on my riding jacket and daddy reached over and plopped my helmet onto my head. The impact of the helmet onto my high pony tail hurt, but I didn't give him the satisfaction of knowing my discomfort. I opened the heavy door, slipped out onto the rocky drive and marched away slamming the door.


End file.
